


I Shall Give You a Prayer

by deathwailart



Series: Morgaine Trevelyan [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Courtship, F/F, Female Friendship, Fluff, Implied Eventual Cullen/Dorian, Male-Female Friendship, Misunderstandings, Poetry, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-05-02 05:29:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5236013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathwailart/pseuds/deathwailart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courting Cassandra Pentaghast; not so simple when you're leading the Inquisition and when both parties are aware of how much she's lost but worth it to Morgaine Trevelyan.</p>
<p>I shall give you a prayer. — Compose a prayer for you — I’ll hide your name in every word.<br/>-- Anne Carson, excerpt of H & A Screenplay, Scene 5</p>
<p>(All poems referenced in the end notes.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Shall Give You a Prayer

In another life, Morgaine Trevelyan would have been courted by noble sons, introduced at salons to make a good strong marriage for the benefit of House Trevelyan and their reputation. Had she not been born a mage. As it is, there's no great sense of loss other than the simmering resentment regarding confinement and the constant watch of Templars though noble status softens it as much as possible. There are still introductions but there's a freedom not shared by her elder siblings and extended family, all strongly encouraged to marry within the Free Marches or Orlais. Morgaine would know, she's studied some lineages to pass on information to their parents and others she's even helped to plan, pouring over tomes in the Circle by the light of tall tallow candles and through carefully worded correspondences with other houses to enquire as to what they might bring to a marriage, even discussions with other children of noble houses just like her, the private group that make up the bulk of the Lucrosians. Vivienne was perhaps a little off the mark regarding the subject of marriage or at least the relevance of it where mages and nobility are involved but she can hardly be blamed for that. She's not from a long line of them and she can't know just how unconventional the Trevelyans of Ostwick are; three in the one generation are mages given her twin cousins, Nuada and Cailleach. Morgaine has never been an oddity in a court having to turn a position into something new, she's never had to carve something out of nothing with her own hands. She's been an asset since the day the Templars came to her home following the visit her parents made to the Circle to explain that once again, magic had appeared in their line, after returning from a long day of meetings to find their child with a wisp twittering in her ear. There was even talk, before she was the one asked to follow along to the Conclave to send back tidings, of a possible marriage between her and a young Templar of a noble line, loose ends to be bound tight to keep a greater thing together. It would have been no great sacrifice but since that has been cut off, she's glad to find herself with this much freedom.  
  
In another life, Cassandra Pentaghast would have been courted by those same noble sons, a Cassandra in the latest Nevarran silks, perhaps with longer hair and fewer scars and not so strong a sword arm. She might have borne the scars of childbirth across her belly and breasts rather than the one that cuts across her high cheekbone, the other one that travels down to her jaw and pulls tight whenever she laughs. If Morgaine had not been a mage then they might have met still, or perhaps if she had been a mage and been granted the chance to go to a Circle in Nevarra to learn their arts then they might still have met. She can almost picture the women they might have been but they're less substantial than the wisps she conjured up as a girl, gone whenever she reaches for them.  
  
In this life, Morgaine Trevelyan will court Cassandra Pentaghast despite protestations from the Seeker though the lingering looks haven't stopped for a moment. After all, she's never backed down from a challenge and the thought of still being the Inquisitor, being the Herald of Andraste and playing all the games she must to secure the alliances and leverage she needs but sweeping Cassandra off her feet like the knights in ancient tales at the same time is impossible to resist. She was Cassandra's prisoner at the outset of this, a burning light branding her hand the same way Cassandra's faith has touched her. She would never have predicted that they would become so close, that there would always be Cassandra's shield between her and harm, her hand at her back when the moments of doubt begin to creep in, few though they may be. Even now she finds herself turning to ask Cassandra's opinion at the war table before she remembers that they're in Skyhold now and she doesn't need the legitimacy of a Seeker and the Justinia's Right Hand to shield her from reprisals. She asks alone now, when Cassandra has been training in the yard, sweat beading on her brow.  
  
She had never planned on love, not even as a girl in the Circle. Love was for other people, for people with fewer ambitions and yet the idea of courting her now seems like raising the stakes.  
  
It isn't exactly proper, to court Cassandra simply because they're both women, the sort of ridiculous backwards attitude Morgaine had hoped would've died at least with the last Blight. Slightly more acceptable for Morgaine perhaps, given that she's a mage and that there's always been a strange attitude about Marchers, but she knows people will talk and Cassandra wants to be swept off her feet but doesn't believe Morgaine capable. It's fair though, very few would think her capable of sentiment, not even her own family always believe she has blood in her, they like to say she's carved of ice and stone but then none of them play the game the way she does, not even her cousins in the Circle ever bothered to make much more than quiet overtures to the fraternity they found a sense of belonging in. It surprises her though that Cassandra would sell her so short, bemusing even.  
  
Cassandra reads, so she can start there. Perhaps with higher standards than the tawdry nature of Swords and Shields; that sort of 'literature' has its place but she's aiming for something better. If she's going to sweep the Lady Seeker off her feet then she's going to take her breath away at the same time.  
  
Candles, flowers, poetry. All easy enough, but as she places the orders for the candles, picks up seeds to grow in the privacy of her own chambers, sends for collections of her favourite books to stock the libraries of Skyhold, she decides to start small. She needn't do it just because she can, yet she wants to. Not just for the challenge but because she wants to give Cassandra all that she deserves, that she wants to convince her that there is softness and light even in both of them, even when the world is torn apart, a fractured mess ready to rip them to shreds. Soft and gentle, that's the way to go, Maker knows they've suffered enough already.  
  


* * *

  
  
There are long days of nothing but reports to be written until her hand and forearm are seized by cramps, the glow of her left hand straining her eyes no matter how many candles she lights. Somewhere else in Skyhold, Cassandra is doing the same, either that or wading through reports and as she signs her name with a flourish, pressing the Inquisition seal from Josephine to the back once it's dry, a plan takes hold. There are volumes lying open on her couch, others neatly stacked with silk ribbons marking her place and she knows the right one immediately, a smile on her face as she collects it and returns to the desk where she massages her wrist and hand almost brutally until she can move them a little at least.  
  
Thank the Maker for small mercies, chief of those at present being her private quarters of Skyhold, fully functional and not in the same state of disrepair they're trying to remedy with each quarry and logging stand found and claimed. It's taking shape thanks to Josephine's efforts and Morgaine carefully choosing the appropriate Serrault glass and delicate banners and heraldry. Andrastian, of course, but an Inquisition throne because the rumours swirl already and though she can play the pious act, she doesn't need more propaganda about her vying for the Sunburst throne. Orlesian décor too, for when they have to address that situation, a show of support, important for a Free Marcher, perhaps not too long lest it rankle the noses of Ferelden but she's sure she'll be applauded for it.  
  
Prior to the Circle, all the children in the family had tutors to teach them the elegant hand expected of nobility at a young age and like all apprentices who could write neatly, she's spent hours copying one volume to another painstakingly, whether it be magical, political, historical. Plenty of reasons for it, all under the control of the Lucrosians, one of the little things that had her wanting to join when she was old enough to start understanding the circles within the Circle. At least for her it was never a punishment, it was a choice, encouraged by family who could speak proudly of it.  
  
No one can say Morgaine Trevelyan failed to apply herself unlike her cousins who were far more concerned with wistful dreams of freedom and a coaching other mages. It has its place but sometimes she's sure they've forgotten that their family name still carries weight and that they aren't free of obligation simply because they're away from home. At least they have a place within the Inquisition though they're careful to stay away since she chose the Templars, not that she blames them but if they think she doesn't know exactly where they are and who they're with then they're mistaken.  
  
She can't write to her own parents and to her aunt and uncle to say that they were killed in conflict, she won't allow such a failure on her watch.  
  
Putting away the quills and ink that are strictly for the business of writing reports, she opens the top drawer of her desk to find the delicate parchment for writing letters to family and contacts, to dignitaries, ambassadors, whomever is important enough to require the personal hand of the Inquisitor, not just her lady ambassador. She takes the first volume from the stack, copying out the verse with painstaking care, every flourish she was ever taught added.  
  
It's a small matter to slip it into Cassandra's copy of Swords and Shields, replacing her bookmark. If she just so happens to be enjoying the sun with a book of her own when Cassandra stops and reads because I prayed this word: I want1. Cassandra looks at her, sweat on her brow from training against the dummies but the red on her cheeks is nothing to do with any of that. The Seeker hesitates, toying with the paper, looking between it and Morgaine before Morgaine makes the decision, rising to her feet to offer out a hand.  
  
"You've been training for too long, I thought we could have lunch together, perhaps discuss the best strategy for Crestwood."  
  
"You hardly need to discuss such things with me now, you have your advisors, you lead us, there's Varric-" Cassandra's mouth turns into a snarl on the name, Morgaine wants to kiss it off.  
  
"You're too hard on yourself," she chides as she cuts her off and Cassandra's blush deepens because it was only a few days ago that she and Varric were at one another's throats with Varric leaving and Cassandra dropping heavily into a seat, Morgaine kneeling before her. "I will _always_ value your opinion. On your feet."  
  
Cassandra doesn't argue, book in one hand and the other so close to Morgaine's that she links their little fingers all the way up the steps and inside.  
  


* * *

  
  
Crestwood is more miserable than the Hinterlands, than the Storm Coast though less so than the Fallow Mire though it's a close call. There's a different sense of misery pervading the air, there are undead, there are more attackers in a great fortress though the ground is at least dry enough that the dead doesn't rise from the waters with the slightest misstep. Varric is with them because he knows Hawke, they might not have been friends but he did hide her presence away and she's here now, and Blackwall too because this is Warden business so she needs him, ignoring the way he glances nervously because whatever is happening with them is bad. Worse, really, if she's being perfectly honest so she can't blame him if he's feeling the strain but this is a Warden contact and she'll feel better with allies.  
  
"Are you excited to meet the Champion?" She asks Cassandra as they trudge up another hill, the mud beneath their feet slick, churning with each step.  
  
"I'm sure Varric told her about how once again I attempted to kill him," she mutters in return, but there's that little smile on her face. It's endearing, really, that she's still so caught up in it all even if the story ended so violently but Ríoghnach Hawke is a woman Morgaine admires too, for the way she came from nothing to seize all the power she wanted. "I only wish we could meet in better times. Though when was there last a good time in the Champion's life?"  
  
"All of us met in troubled times," she looks behind, Varric striding up after them, Blackwall bringing up the rear with an eye out for those green-eyed wolves that seem to roam everywhere without fear these days. "Apart from Solas and sometimes Sera I like to think we all get on well enough."  
  
Something seizes Cassandra's features, just like after the fight had gone out of her in Skyhold as Morgaine wanted to take her warrior's hands with all their scrapes and calluses in her own to kiss them. "I meant it, that I am glad it is you, that I wouldn't change it. You are who we need Mor- Inquisitor."  
  
"It's Morgaine, Cassandra, when it's any of us, especially _us_ it's Morgaine."  
  
Anything further is halted when Hawke approaches, taller and more severe away from Skyhold, the red paint across her nose running down her face like tears from the rain as she leads them to her contact, to Loghain Mac Tir, a great man still though she can see the years sitting heavily on him. The Blight, becoming a Warden and sent to Orlais of all places, then his second son-in-law disappearing off to leave behind a wife once again right as the world decides to fall apart. But if anyone needs a general, the Wardens do and she extends both him and Hawke every courtesy Skyhold has to offer after they've all made it to the Western Approach.  
  
There's more business to conduct in Crestwood before they can leave and that's before they've dealt with the dragon that took flight after the discovery of the dam controls, so they pile back to the nearest camp, anxious to be out of the cold, clothes hanging in the furthest corner of the tent once the dispatches are received along with hearty stew. Druffalo is tasteless but after a bellyful of mutton in the Hinterlands she's glad of the change as she and Cassandra settle beneath blankets and little else. They eat in silence, listening to the rain drumming on the roof of the tent and the chattering of the scouts as they share a joke about someone falling into a bog. Despite the time in Haven and everything between abandoning it and Skyhold, she finds herself shivering when she puts the messages down, none of them requiring a response and Cassandra's hand is hot upon her knee, even through the blankets.  
  
"Inquis- Morgaine, are you well?"  
  
"Freezing, actually but everything is damp and cold, I'll need to find someone who can supply us with warmer blankets, our men and women deserve better."  
  
Cassandra smiles and shifts closer, raising part of her blanket slightly. "Come here, there's nothing much else to do and if you mean to explore old Crestwood tomorrow, an early night would not go amiss. It is a heavy duty to find the bodies of those lost, but better they can be put to rest." There's a flash of skin that would catch her attention if not for that flash of pain she catches that has her finding Cassandra's hand once they've moved the bedrolls together and settled beneath both their blankets, close enough to kiss if either moved their head an inch.  
  
"You're thinking about Haven and the Conclave, aren't you?" Morgaine asks gently, squeezing Cassandra's hand and she isn't imagining the shudder that passes through her.  
  
"I ask myself what I could have done even though I know in my heart that I would have been slain, perhaps crying out in fear and agony like those we passed on our way to seal that first rift but I cannot silence my mind."  
  
"Have you always been so hard on yourself?" She isn't expecting an answer, but she thought she was harsh enough on herself in the relentless quest for perfection but this isn't the same. Cassandra cares, she cares deeply and honestly, she believes in ideals, in principles, in things Morgaine has always tried to ignore in favour of something more. Even now she tells herself that each decision will pay off for the day she can change things to be better but there's still doubt, she just can't bring herself to show it. "We wouldn't be where we are without you."  
  
"You would manage, you have a way of making things bend to you without even realising they're doing it. I saw how well you handled the confrontation in Val Royeaux, with those in Haven and the Hinterlands, all of that before we met with the Templars."  
  
"I had you."  
  
There's a quiet gasp from next of her, like someone drove a fist into Cassandra's belly to force all the air out, dark eyes so wide that perhaps there's nothing more to say, just Cassandra's other hand finding hers beneath the blankets. There are no soft words, not tonight, just tilting her head to the side and leaning in to kiss Cassandra chastely, enough to know she was kissed before she tucks her head beneath her chin and feels a strong arm gathering her close in the dark.  
  
When they leave Crestwood for Skyhold, with the beginnings of a plan for the Western Approach, the sun is shining. They share tents all the way back, they trade books, Morgaine's volume of poetry for the first Swords and Shields chapter, and when the return to Skyhold, Morgaine escorts Cassandra to her room and kisses her hands like she wanted to when those hands wished for nothing more than to throttle a certain dwarf.  
  


* * *

  
  
Getting to the Western Approach promises to be something of a nightmare. There are numerous favours to call in before they can even get started, Harding and Cullen talking for long hours about the merits of this scout or that with whatever leader of their particular group can be found. Morgaine knows precious little of the desert so she's more often than not running between her rooms and the library until she gives up and sits herself at the table by Dorian who talks Tevinter and the Venatori as she ploughs through this treatise on the fauna and a surprisingly large tome on the unsurprisingly limited fauna. Blackwall has little to offer on the Blight that ravaged it but there are books on that too.  
  
She wants to be prepared, as well as she can be, Dorian equally keen when he flags a runner to start bringing them dinner.  
  
"Cassandra's going to feel abandoned at this rate," he says over stuffed peppers that almost burn her mouth. They have the books closed, not out of fear of spilling anything on them, they're mages from different lands but every mage is a master of not getting food and drink in the books by the time they've passed their Harrowing. "All these nights with little old me instead of seeking her out."  
  
"Do I need to let Leliana know you've captured the best vantage point in all of Skyhold as your personal reading nook?"  
  
"I'd rather you didn't, I don't need her sending her little birdies after me. One of the puffed up little shits attempted to pluck one of the buttons off my robes!"  
  
Morgaine laughs, covering her mouth with her hand. "That's what you get when you stand out."  
  
"Not all of us can be drab little pigeons, not that I would accuse present company, you probably have a wardrobe to rival Maevaris," he continues without missing a beat, gesturing to her with his fork. "But people do talk, I think Varric's running a betting pool, discreet as possible given recent table projectiles."  
  
"She didn't actually throw one," Morgaine points out though she's almost disappointed, she would've paid good money to see that happen and Dorian's little smirk is proof that it must show before she can hide it by taking another bite. "So what's the gossip then?"  
  
"Bull thinks you're working off tension but his mind would go down that road. Sera had plenty of suggestions, all of them lewd, Solas declined to give a proper answer, our dear commander looked utterly _scandalised_ over chess-"  
  
"How _are_ those little chess sessions going?"  
  
Dorian almost chokes, wipes his mouth with his napkin and coughs into his hand. "I suppose chess is a little more direct than the poetry."  
  
"Cole?"  
  
"Cole. And I've been exchanging some books – none of that Swords and Shields rubbish – but a few things I thought might be of benefit and I know Cassandra would never have so neat a hand. I mentioned she might want to remove her bookmarks and she went so red I thought I'd need to send for a healer."  
  
Their laughter rings out in the tower and Solas is undoubtedly looking up at them with suspicion since Morgaine professed to having much more of an interest in necromancy than rift magic, he probably thinks they're up to all sorts of no good and let him, they've been on poor terms since she chose the Templars and the speech she gave upon accepting the mantle of Inquisitor.  
  
"It's fun though, isn't it?" She hopes she's not the only one who likes getting to know another like that, the opening gambit and the tentative first steps. "I never had the chance for this in the Circle, it had a level of politics devoted just to this and it would've been too serious and confining."  
  
"It's more than just fun. I do care for Cassandra so I wouldn't relish having to hurt you if you hurt her."  
  
"She's in no danger from me – don't tell Varric but this is what she asked for. All the poetry, candles, flowers."  
  
"Actual romance from Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast," Dorian echoes but even though he's teasing just as much as she is, there's something so fond in the way he says it that Morgaine feels her stomach flutter. "You're moving at a better pace than Cullen and I suppose, I was surprised he did return the interest," and he says it quickly, especially after that ugly confrontation with his father, a wound that must still be so raw that she lays her hand on his arm gently, "but some things are better off if they're not rushed."  
  
"He's been through a lot, the Blight," the Warden though she doesn't say that, that's something for Cullen to tell Dorian in his own time, "leading the troops. And there's the lyrium issue. But he always smiles whenever you've just left and he actually stops hunching his shoulders when you two are playing chess, I didn't know he could do that and I met him before I even sealed that first rift. Some good wine, a good meal – or maybe beer, he's Ferelden. Do you remember what you said once? It was after we got here and I asked about Tevinter?"  
  
"So much has happened since then, remind me?"  
  
"That part about knowing no reserve? Cullen's like that. He gives his all."  
  
Dorian smiles, soft and slow and squeezes the hand atop his arm before he leans forward conspiratorially, looking every inch the wicked Tevinter magister. "Next time you're trying to make Cassandra blush? Try this one: you dreamt of me, I knew, and hence I couldn't sleep 2. Very old, that one, a Tevinter thing."  
  
"I think that one should be yours." She doesn't think she's imagining that light in his eyes even though her own vision is blurring now with a full belly and strong wine from the cellar, not an incredible vintage but one of the better ones they've managed to bring to Skyhold. "Come on, you know how people will talk if we haven't actually figured out what the Venatori are looking for."  
  
"You never know, perhaps they're looking for long lost relatives in the Abyssal Rift."  
  
She almost chokes on her wine and contemplates throwing a book at his head when she laughs so hard her makeup runs.  
  


* * *

  
  
After Adamant and the Fade, she takes to the gardens, unable to be cooped up in her quarters or anywhere else she might be needed, unable to shake the dreams away. Solas and Vivienne want to talk, Sera rubs her the wrong way when she's still reeling, she has no idea what exactly is wrong with Cole, Bull's idea of hitting sounds about right, Dorian's caution settles her a touch but then there's Varric's grief and Blackwall's words about Clarel, the pain in them and for once she falters. He strikes closer than he knows and she does wonder how she'll be remembered, the same discussion she'd had with Cassandra and it all drives her into the garden where it's quiet, on her knees with dirt beneath her nails and the sun on her back.  
  
She doesn't think to find Cassandra with her as she's planting embrium, doesn't even notice the company at first until she looks over to find her at a bench watching Morgaine at work, her smile a shadow of what it usually is.  
  
"I thought it only fair to come find you for a change; I've noticed you've been keeping odd hours." She pats the bench and Morgaine wipes off her hands as best she can, hoping she's not just as sweaty as she feels. Or glowing. Great-aunt Lucille always used to scold her for saying she sweated. That was for horses, perspiring was for men, ladies only ever glowed. Not that Lucille had ever done much more work than organising salons and then using them to exercise her tongue but that was family for you. "Are you recovering after our journey to the Fade?"  
  
"Honestly? I don't know. Sometimes yes, sometimes no. If only it was as easy as Bull makes it look, find a woman, give her a big stick, beat it out."  
  
Cassandra laughs, raising a brow. "Shall I ask for it? I assume you won't have the same complaints that he has."  
  
"No, I'm still sore from that damn thing, the spider bites need to heal too, I think they're ever awful thing one my cousins gave me as a little girl." Bloody Asher and his nonsense telling her that there were spiders out there that could swallow children whole, that could bite through the thickest armour as if it were nothing. "What about you? I heard what it said."  
  
"I am not afraid." But it's defensive and she saw those tombstones, that one word that she recoils from just as strongly. "I walk in the Maker's light and we've slain so many demons that at least had the decency not to talk so much. I wanted to ask about you, when you spoke of the envy demon at Therinfall, I was afraid for you, then you sent us ahead of you while Loghain remained. I—"  
  
"I'm here Cassandra. Alive, whole." Uncaring of the dirt still clinging beneath her nails, she grabs for Cassandra's hand, squeezing it tight.  
  
"Each time you go out there, you hurl yourself at the chaos."  
  
"What other choice do I have? I have the Anchor, I lead the Inquisition. If I don't go out there and fight then Corypheus wins and something worse than a Blight comes if he bends Wardens to his will." Panic rises in her belly, the taste of bile in her mouth scorching up her throat and this isn't right. Is this what Cassandra feared? That Morgaine couldn't be the woman she wanted and the Inquisitor? She wants her, cares for her in a way she's never allowed herself to care before and she rests her head on Cassandra's shoulder, sighing so heavily she shakes with the unfairness of it all, with all the other lives where they might have met, where it might have been easier. "Nothing worth wanting is ever simple," she settles on at last, looking down at their hands.  
  
She waits because if she's asked to stop, she will.  
  
"I think we both might need some time," Cassandra says carefully and Morgaine swallows, feeling the calm mask she wears so often slip over her face as she fights the urge to study her nails instead of looking up at Cassandra as if nothing is amiss. "I need to look for the other Seekers, to find out what happened with the Lord Seeker, I know we have other things, we've barely touched these Freemen of the Dales, the civil war in Orlais-"  
  
"Look for them. We have the resources; we'd do well to know what happened when there are still apostates and the Venatori to consider. Leliana and Josephine can help more with the Orlesian situation, they've both lived there, studied there, and they're advisors for a reason."  
  
"Thank you," the exhalation is almost like a prayer, as if she somehow expected otherwise and it stings even if it hadn't been meant as some sort of slight. "When you have time, meet me in the war room. Alone. I…I would prefer not to have an audience for something like that."  
  
Morgaine nods, watching as Cassandra rises and tries to mirror the smile she sees but it only pulls tight at the edges and disappears as soon as Cassandra's back is to her. She returns to her gardening, working until her shoulders ache before she heads back inside, lounging in the bath longer than necessary until she's red as a lobster and she has her dinner brought to her with whatever missives require her attention. Volumes of poetry are neatly stacked on her couch until she tosses a blanket over them, finding a good strong tea to brew as she begins to answer them. She'll write until near dawn, catch a few hours of fitful sleep and resume plans to investigate the Exalted Plains further as they wait for the Chargers to return from the destruction of Adamant fortress and the works to secure a route deeper into the Approach and the fortifications to the keep are over before they press on there. It's better than the nightmares she's had since returning from the Fade and regaining her memories, almost as terrible as those she had as a girl. If she does sleep, it's better to be too tired to dream at all.  
  


* * *

  
  
Even if there's something eerie about the battlements, about the letters she collects from dead soldiers and that strange thrumming sound they can't investigate until the bridge is repaired, there's at least sunshine and the wind in her hair out in the Exalted Plains. She learns too late that bringing Cole was a mistake, she doesn't need to know so much about their surroundings but given his fears and with the Wardens so fresh in her mind, she brings him along. She tells herself it has very little to do with a sense of obligation after his help against the envy demon. Vivienne is hardly pleased to be around him too but better to have him where she can deal with him should it come to it when she decided he could stay. Bull rounds out their little party and she's almost sorry to return to Skyhold because Bull and Vivienne make her laugh, allowing her to shake off some of the horror and every soldier trips over their own feet to welcome her and to peek at a Qunari of Bull's stature in awe. No, Tal-Vashoth. Tal-Vashoth because as much as an alliance with the Qun would be a boon, she's leery of it after Bull's comment about 'political bullshit' regarding Vivienne that could apply to her and to the way the Chantry look to her still, unsure, waiting, ready to strike should she threaten order again.  
  
Cassandra's waiting for her when they get back, not at the gates but she catches Morgaine on her way to check in with the quartermaster, wringing her hands and not quite meeting her eyes.  
  
"I've found something," she says, eager but nervous, "I'm glad you've returned."  
  
"I have a few things that can't wait, but I'll find you as soon as I'm done."  
  
Of course Cassandra can't know that she rattles through everything needing done because as much as she enjoys time with everyone, she's become accustomed to Cassandra being at her side, something steady and solid about her presence, about the way she brings her shield to bear if anything gets too close to Morgaine out in the wilds. There's always that smile after, out of breath but alive, eyes bright and those are the moments when Morgaine knows her mask slips because she feels too alive to pretend at all. How often has she had her eyes on Cassandra's lips and wanted to kiss them when her heart is hammering in her chest? Vivienne sees through it, Dorian sees through it, Bull saw through it from the start because that's his job and Varric has this odd way of looking at them and if they don't end up as some torrid romance in one of his stories she might possibly be offended.  
  
There's food waiting, fresh bread and stew, dark beer and it makes it easier to just listen as Cassandra talks about what she's found and passed to Leliana. It's not her usual bright smile but Morgaine will take what she gets when she tells her that the investigation is already underway. Leliana knows how important it is and with the Templars on their side, they all need to know what's going on with the Seekers. It's not just about putting Cassandra's mind at ease but she can hear her own voice laughing in the back of her head as it calls her a liar.  
  
"I missed you when you were away," Cassandra says as they finish up their meal, "I'd gotten used to the notes. And the pressed flowers under them, I know it's you. I've kept them."  
  
"I didn't realise you'd be quite so sentimental." It's easier to say it around a mouthful of beer so thick she could probably chew it, not bad for Ferelden but it sometimes surprises her that Cassandra actually does enjoy this.  
  
"There are things worth holding on to. Are there any of us here who don't cling tightly to what we have left? Varric and Hawke were always fractious by his own admission and yet he misses her now she's gone to Weisshaupt. As if a piece of him is gone too."  
  
Morgaine is lucky to have experienced little loss. She has her family mostly intact, unlike Cassandra, some of them hard to pin down – Asher is Asher, always off on some adventure or shirking his responsibilities as usual in favour of getting into fights, whoring his way about, Cailleach and Nuada are involved where mages are needed and Finn is probably in Starkhaven though she can't be sure though she does know he hadn't taken his vows as a Templar though it's a thought now, to have him join the fold for the future – but they're in contact. Not like the letters Cassandra won't read or the brother that's the catch in her throat. She hasn't mentioned past lovers but there's every possibility she's been too much like Morgaine where no one has lasted or that her dedication has consumed her life.  
  
"Morgaine?" Cassandra taps her hand, the furrow in her brow returned. She swallows the urge to kiss it away, they aren't that close, might not ever go further than la splendeur des coeurs perdu but it's hardly appropriate to ask her, much as she wants to.  
  
"Sorry, I've had a lot on my mind and there were some letters regarding my family that were passed my way."  
  
"You must miss them."  
  
"Less than I should, we wrote more than we spent time together, we're strangers to each other. Some of us have the same Trevelyan look – the dark hair, the long nose, the jaw but I doubt Asher, Finn and I would recognise who we are to each other. Asher somehow ended up with fair hair and he looks like an Avvar in stature and the general dishevelled look, Finn's got a lot of Starkhaven instead, unless his hair darkened over the last few years it's very red and he's got that slender archer build."  
  
"They're all cousins, yes?" She nods, watching Cassandra toy with the fraying cover of her book even as her fingers twitch with the urge to pull it away from her so she won't damage it further when it's not hers to begin with.  
  
"My older siblings are involved in the Chantry but there's little involvement really, even in Chantry life there can be reprisals for having a mage for a relative." Bitterness rolls off her tongue without her meaning to, the way she lets too much slip these days around Cassandra and the other woman might have the right of it when she said she couldn't be both the Inquisitor and what Cassandra wanted.  
  
"You aren't close to any of them?"  
  
Any other time, Cassandra's expression might have been funny but with the shadow of the Seekers hanging over them she can't bring herself to do much more than smirk. "They do what our parents tell them, especially now but my magic manifested when I was young so they preferred to have little to do with me and I with them."  
  
"Anthony was- he was my rock, when we lost our parents and were sent to our uncle. We cling hard to what we have left." She pulls her hands away to gather them, fingers tucked in and Morgaine fights the urge to sigh and rub at the ache in the base of her skull where her braids are starting to pull too tight after a long day. "It's ridiculous but now more than ever I wonder how my life would have been had he lived. Had I been given to the Templars not the Seekers. Had I stayed and been the girl my uncle wished for and married nobility."  
  
"I think recent events have taught me that it's better not to dwell on anything that might be a dream."  
  
"You don't wonder?" Cassandra brings her hands up to rest her chin on steepled fingers and Morgaine gives in, removing one of the pins keeping a heavy portion of braid in place to readjust it so it won't pull at her tender scalp. She misses leaving her hair long and loose or tied back simply but she can't look unkempt, nor can she indulge in the bad habit of playing with it if it's kept out of her way in something fashionable yet practical. "I thought mages might more than most."  
  
"There are certain things you stop thinking about the day the Circle doors shut behind you," there's a sharpness to her voice that would likely raise a hackle or two if she used it elsewhere. "Marriage and romance go out of the window and I've seen too many torture themselves with the what-ifs, the kind who turn to blood magic or try to escape. The rest of us learn to swallow it and move on with the task at hand."  
  
"I see." Caution and care in the way she says it, pulling up her armour and wasn't this what she was accused of once? That she'd cut off her own nose to spite her face? "It's late, you've only just arrived back. Thank you for agreeing to look for the Seekers and for dinner, I should-" She doesn't finish, rising and managing to say goodnight before she scrapes her chair loudly against the floor and heads out.  
  
Morgaine swears to herself, finally allowing the slouch to enter her posture as she tries to summon the energy to move, forcing herself to her feet with a groan, an elven serving girl nodding nervously as she rushes up the steps to deal with their dishes. It's never truly quiet in Skyhold, laughter in the tavern, people sitting out in cold nights with drinks to swap stories, people returning from one assignment or heading out and always supplies trundling up and down but there isn't the sea she could hear in Ostwick, nor the cry of gulls and the air burns if you inhale too quickly. At least it chills her enough that the flush on her cheeks – anger, embarrassment, shame, she's not quite sure what she feels but it all bubbles beneath a heavy layer of frustration at it all going so wrong when it was going so well – is gone by the time she heads inside, nodding to Varric when he looks up from his many letters. She doesn't stop to chat because he's too good at getting a story out of people, courteous to whatever nobility happen to still be up and about to drink the cellars dry before she can shut the heavy door by the throne and shut the world away.  
  
Banking the fire, she sets her sleeping clothes next to it to warm as she shuts the drapes and sighs at her desk, at yet more letters appearing in her absence to be left by either Josephine or Leliana, the only two who ever come up here in her absence. She should sleep but no rest for the wicked and she grabs for the first letter, breaking the seal roughly with a finger without examining it.  
  
_But a chair, sunlight, flowers: these are not to be dismissed. I am alive, I live, I breathe, I put my hand out, unfolded, into the sunlight. 3_ Cassandra's hand, smudged, written in the same somehow annoyed looking script she used for the official reports she submitted and Morgaine smiles even as she wants to kick herself. It's late, she's exhausted and she grabs for a parchment, quill and ink, not caring if her letters are as neat as she wishes them to be.  
  
_I give my love to you… Ungemmed, unhidden, wishing not to hurt…_ 4  
  
She seals it as soon as she can and almost throws herself down the stairs to grab a startled runner, hissing Cassandra's name and watching as they run down the hall.  
  


* * *

  
  
What they find with the Seekers is only surprising in that it manages to be so painful when it feels like something of a foregone conclusion. It's a long journey there but longer back, none of them daring to speak and the silence grows, an ugly feral thing, all teeth and claws, and when she touches Cassandra's shoulder she can feel the shudder pass through her, that intake of breath that could be a sob as she holds the tome to her chest like a prayer. There aren't words for every kind of grief and even if there's at least a certain closure after their initial confrontation when they sought the aid of the Templars, none of it can be easy. They're the last through the gates at Skyhold, Varric and Vivienne ahead of them and Morgaine takes her to one side in the shadow of the flanking towers, resting their foreheads together and Cassandra shudder again, like she might break apart.  
  
"Whatever you need, I'm here."  
  
Cassandra opens and closes her mouth before nodding, mouth a thin line as she marches off and Morgaine watches before she heads inside to check on what new problems have arisen in her absence, taking the time to catch up with some allies visiting and with some of her companions, Leliana more than ready to fill her in on the latest gossip when she joins her in the rookery. By the time she finds Cassandra, she's ploughed through the tome, exhausted but not defeated, looking almost as if she's come from battle and it settles her at least because she'd worried that she'd find something worse in the book. No one can be blamed for jumping to the worst possible conclusion at the moment, sometimes it's the only thing that makes sense with ancient Darkspawn magisters, their archdemons, red lyrium and holes in the very sky itself as demons push through to ravage the land.  
  
Tranquillity is a fear that all mages must share at some point once they're old enough to understand why the people in charge of the stores and enchanting are so different to them and Ostwick was close enough to Kirkwall that the stories filtered to them slowly, bit by bit. She's looked through their skulls left behind by the Venatori, she's recruited some to Skyhold but it makes her sick to realise just how deep the abuse goes. It's another complication that was simply a discussion, theories tossed out by the brightest minds as to how and why it might be reversed, the consequences of such an action. For it to sit in her lap so suddenly, for it to have been used to make _Seekers_ of all things without their knowledge or true understanding, for spirits to appear—  
  
It's difficult now. There's a responsibility to her fellows, to every child who cannot control their magic, to those who were punished for the slightest crimes and made examples of but Kirkwall casts such a long shadow in the shape of an apostate and a Knight-Commander that she can't think about it too deeply, not now. Better to agree to look later when there's less to do and they can look at it with cooler heads, better to talk of rebuilding, of something good that might come of Cassandra seeing her apprentice betrayed by the one who they looked to for leadership, putting him out of his misery.  
  
It could have been any one thing that lit the fuse for the fires but their enemies must know how all the pieces fit together, how fragile a world it truly is and her heart aches for Cassandra, a woman always so secure in her faith where Morgaine plays the game with her doubts and questions kept private. It's hard to remain seated, just watching, useless but she can't work this out for her. So she sits and waits, forcing herself to remain still and keep her voice measured and calm until Cassandra turns to face her once more, a hint of her old smile on her face.  
  
"Thank you. I could not have done this on my own," she tells Morgaine who bites her lip. Cassandra is worthy, more than worthy, to make the Seekers better than they were and of course she could have done it on her own and she tells her just as much as Cassandra turns to leave. She's still smiling when she stops on the stairs, glancing up at Morgaine shyly. "Just because I can…it doesn't mean I would want to. I am glad to have you by my side, in all things."  
  


* * *

  
  
Vivienne is no fool, so Morgaine sees no reason in acting like one when they're next in Val Royeaux together, masked and with arms linked, strolling along as if all the cares in the world will simply lie down and allow them to walk over them.  
  
"My dear," Vivienne begins because Morgaine is always her dear even when they're not on the best of terms. Like knows like, there's something similar in both of them and that grudging respect anyone familiar with the Game always feels. She's a Marcher, but not all of them are as provincial as Orlesians think. "It's come to my attention that our Lady Seeker seems a touch distracted of late, you wouldn't happen to know anything about that now, would you?"  
  
Morgaine's mask is cut to show off the line of her jaw, her full lips painted a pink that verges on purple and she smiles carefully, leaning forward to glance over the fabric swatches on display. "Our Lady Seeker has many duties and distractions, not just the current situation of how best to sort out the Wardens now they've joined us, the war, the Breach, the Red Templars on top of everything else we're dealing with; her heart must grieve for her fellows, those lost to us and those who do not yet know of the betrayal."  
  
"Of course darling," Vivienne strokes a hand over a bolt of delicate dove grey silk and Morgaine hopes Josephine makes a note to have more delivered for robes before venturing to the palace assuming Vivienne hasn't already done so too. "But she does seem to part company with you late in these evenings, more than she has since shortly after your return from the Fade."  
  
"Cassandra was a rock for me in the beginning, she's shown a great deal of faith in me. If I can take her mind off things at all in these troubled times…"  
  
Vivienne's smile is amused but warm. She cares. Maker knows she plays the Game better than a single soul Morgaine has encountered before, you don't climb your way up the ranks as she has and move through Orlesian with grace and poise without having thrice the wits of a fox and the calm head of a skilled commander but she's seen the pain in Vivienne's eyes before, the hurt, the fear. Morgaine sees it all in the mirror before she puts on her face each morning.  
  
"It's good to have true friends in these troubled times," they turn from the vendor, Morgaine assuring him she'll speak with Josephine and he almost swoons in delight. They head for the café the Inquisition has claimed a presence at from the start because an army marches on its stomach so why shouldn't they? Vivienne continues as they walk, waving to a few who gasp and drop into little curtseys. "Though I would caution you that there are always eyes upon the Inquisition, as you well know, all those long nights with only candles and wine, saying your goodbyes at the door – people will talk."  
  
"Should I make it worth their while?" Bold words but this is what Cassandra wants and Morgaine is happy to indulge that other side of herself so rarely allowed to see the light of day.  
  
"Just know that should anything uncomplimentary come your way, you will both have me to rely upon."  
  
They're seated, the best seats of course, the finest wine already poured with a great flourishing bow as Maryden begins to sing in Orlesian and Morgaine leans across, setting her hand atop Vivienne's.  
  
"Thank you," she says and means it, no hint of any attempt to gain the upper hand. She knows there will be vicious gossip no matter how it goes and they can't afford it but this isn't something she'd ask Josephine or Leliana to deal with, not when it's so personal. "I'm glad to know that we can both rely on your support."  
  
"We need happiness in these times."  
  
Vivienne raises her glass and Morgaine tips hers against it before she takes a sip. It's sweeter than Morgaine would like, she's used to the dryer vintages in the Free Marches, one of those little bones of contention between anyone with an Orlesian neighbour when Orlais likes to say they have the very best of everything.  
  
"Let me be holy and warm," she murmurs after she swallows, swirling the wine in the glass, "let me be the exhale. The best wine. The wish on every eyelash." 5 When she looks up, Vivienne is still smiling but there's something unguarded about it that makes her wonder about how this went with the Duke de Ghyslain from the few details she knows from Vivienne and what she can surmise from Orlesian courting traditions. Though strictly speaking, those might not apply at all given the status of both parties. She could ask, Vivienne might tell her but it's more likely she'd be rebuffed.  
  
She hopes there was poetry, soft light, moments of the masks coming off away from prying eyes.  
  
"There's a collection I'll send for, assuming the rebels didn't burn everything," her expression sours, "I think you'll find it most illuminating."  
  
Morgaine accepts graciously, glad to know for certain that she has Vivienne – not Madame de Fer, not the First Enchanter of Montsimmard but Vivienne – in her corner no matter what comes. When beautifully bound volumes of Orlesian poetry banned several times in the name of decency and morals arrive for her, she smiles and begins writing down the list of things she'll need to thank Vivienne so they're even once more.  
  


* * *

  
  
She finds just the right spot at last after searching high and low, spending her free afternoons clearing it of any plant that might cause a rash in an uncomfortable place, setting the candles where the wind won't snuff them out, laying out warm blankets, soft and thick, nicer than anything they've had in any shared tent. She's nervous, sweating palms she wipes against her robes when she ventures back to Skyhold feeling remarkably like she did when they woke her in the night to take her Harrowing. Still, unless Corypheus appears with another army, her advisors know she's not to be disturbed tonight and to not send anyone looking for her until she returns, Leliana grinning wickedly, Josephine hiding her hand and Cullen smiling fondly as she gives the instruction.  
  
All that she has to do is ask Cassandra to meet her without giving the game away though Cassandra is just as flustered as her when she accepts the invitation.  
  
_This almost didn't happen_ , she thinks to herself as she restrains the urge to run inside and fix her hair and makeup, to fuss with the right robes to wear. Varric's chuckle when she finally leaves as the sun dips below the mountains is far too knowing.  
  


* * *

  
  
Flowers aren't something she's good at, the part she's left until the very last, smuggling them down to the grove that's bare this time of year apart from the trees, the blooms bright even in the dark and it's worth it when Cassandra pauses as she follows the candles to where Morgaine waits for her, bending to stroke her fingers over petals soft as velvet, pure white but for the most delicate veins of pale blue running through them, nestled by tall Orlesian blooms the colour of fire giving way to pinks and golds, fragrant in the still night air as the crickets chirp. Cassandra's cheeks flush but she keeps walking, the light of the flames and moon highlighting her sharp cheekbones, the deep line of her scar, her dark eyes and full lips as Morgaine rises and approaches her.  
  
"Your slightest look easily will unclose me, though I have closed myself as fingers," she recites from memory, glad now that she practiced alone before Cassandra came, closing the gap between them until she can feel the heat of her, smell the blade oil that clings like perfume. "You open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose."6  
  
It's Cassandra who reaches for her hands and lifts them, kissing the knuckles of the left and then the right, her smile bright and Morgaine smiles back, relief settling in her, a stone in a deep well. "And wasn’t it sacred, the sweetness we licked from each other’s hands? And were we not lovely, then, were we not as lovely as thunder, and damp grass, and flame?"7  
  
When she kisses her at last, Cassandra holds tight to her robes as if she might disappear entirely, until Morgaine feels her knees buckle and her head swim and she moans, fingers finding purchase at Cassandra's shoulders, face flushed. They strip quickly, efficiently, time enough later for slow explorations when there's a bed and the urgency has passed because there's Cassandra spread out atop her on the blanket, shivering when Morgaine maps her back with fingertips and plants little kisses down her throat. She won't rush, so when Cassandra captures her hands to pin them by her side, she looks up, worry showing but it's kissed away quickly enough.  
  
"I have," and Cassandra swallows, smaller in the dark yet somehow not, her armour gone but Morgaine has always believed that you are at your bravest when you need to strip all else away, to brace yourself for the sword through the heart or for it falling from numb fingers and readying the forgiveness from a thousand apologies, "I have never been with a woman and there was only one man before. Regalyan. When I was young. When we were both young."  
  
And she gathers her close, casts another ward to keep the world from intruding and listens to her whispers in the dark, listens to her speak of the man she loved when she was just a girl, his loss at the Conclave and kisses her at the end. She kisses her carefully, leading without demanding and it's Cassandra who makes the first move to get Morgaine out of her robes until they're down on the blankets and naked, Morgaine shaking when they're done as they curl close to one another, flushed and smiling, trading kisses as they try to breathe again. Morgaine's barrier is a shaky thing but she feels better for having it even for a moment as she lets Cassandra comb through her long dark hair with her fingers. It's the first time in so long she's slept without that ache in her spine from holding herself up and before she falls asleep, she catches Cassandra relaxed and at peace, without the furrow between her brows that she can kiss away now.  
  
"The night isn’t dark; the world is dark." She breathes the words against Cassandra's lips, sword callused hands holding hers so tight it almost hurts. "Stay with me a little longer."8  
  
And she does.

**Author's Note:**

> Much like my Lavellans all existing, all the Trevelyans exist; Nuada and Cailleach are the full-blooded Trevelyans of Ostwick and are twins, Morgaine is a cousin with Orlesian blood and Finn is another cousin with a lot of Starkhaven in him. Asher is a cousin again who got sent away in disgrace. As concerns my Hawke, I've written about her a few times, she's Ríoghnach Hawke, a very firmly red Hawke, two-handed warrior, sided with the Templars, rivalled everyone but Fenris and romanced Sebastian. And because Bioware can meet me in the pit, Sebastian is reclaiming Starkhaven and it's an alliance that will shake the Free Marches. Shh let me dream.
> 
> The part about mages copying over tomes is a little headcanon I'm very attached to. I like the idea that the young ones who can write well are taught how to copy across older volumes so they're not lost in an accident, to help make additional volumes to send to other circles (cheaper when you take into account the other running costs of a Circle) or for private collectors who want their own version of a book. And because the Lucrosians are about wealth and political power, it makes sense to me that they'd be the ones running that type of operation. It also would work well for a punishment for the more standard tomes, just young mages having to copy for a set number of candlemarks at the end of each day.
> 
> Finally, here are the poems I used in the story:
> 
> 1 Sappho, fr. 22, Anne Carson translation  
> 2 White Flock, Anna Akhmatova  
> 3 The Handmaid's Tale, Margaret Atwood  
> 4 Not In a Silver Casket Cool With Pearls, Edna St. Vincent Millay  
> 5 Offering, Stevie Edwards  
> 6 Somewhere I Have Never Travelled, Gladly Beyond, E.E. Cummings  
> 7 Anniversary, Cecelia Woloch (yes I used this one before but I love it)  
> 8 Departure, Louise Glück.


End file.
